


The Last Days of the Beilschmidts: the true account told through original documents

by Prince_of_Elsinore



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Gothic, Horror, M/M, Supernatural Elements, more tags to come but they're kind of spoilerish so I'll wait till the fic is finished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5180387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_of_Elsinore/pseuds/Prince_of_Elsinore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1932, the Beilschmidt residence burned to the ground and its last resident vanished without a trace. Newly uncovered documents reveal the incredible story of the final months of the house of Beilschmidt, and the mysterious stranger who came to stay. [HIATUS]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written partially for Halloween and partially for Tumblr's Germancest Week 2015, Day 8: Reunion.
> 
> The formatting isn't exactly as I intended it, because not everything translates over to AO3's format very well. But so far I haven't found a place to post it that keeps the formatting completely intact. The changes are mostly small--I'll work on correcting them to the extent I can soon.
> 
> Also, I use the name "Erzsébet" for Elizaveta here, because that is actually the Hungarian form of the name.
> 
> Finally, there is supposed to be a photograph included in this fic as illustration, but I'm still working on how best to include that in this website's formatting. Until I am able to add it, the version posted on my fic tumblr includes the photograph.

_Preface_

The fall of the Iron Curtain has afforded ethnographers such as myself an unprecedented level of access to the remotest pockets of civilization in Eastern Europe. Not since before the Second World War have these regions been open to Western tourists and scholars alike; though in those days one would have had to contend with considerably more difficult travel conditions in the mountainous region where my interests lie. Luckily for me, infrastructural improvements to the area were undertaken by the Romanian government in the 1970s, and the region is now served by a modern highway system.

It was through these happy circumstances of history and logistics that I was able to make my most recent sabbatical tour also my most extensive yet, visiting many locales hitherto known to me only through outdated sources and what scanty academic accounts percolated through the borders of the Eastern Bloc; virtually no historians of good standing in the People's or Socialist Republic concerned themselves with my particular area of study.

One of these locales was the village of Telmacel, nestled into a river basin of the Lotru Mountains of the Southern Carpathians. The surrounding county, called Sibiu, is the cradle of the Transylvanian Saxon culture that all but disappeared in 1944-45, when the majority of the ethnic Germans of Romania either fled before the approaching Red Army or were deported to Siberia after the country was occupied. Ironically, the same political developments to which I owe the opportunity to write this record may have also sealed the fate of this dwindling minority; the opening of the borders has unleashed a new wave—perhaps the last—of Transylvanian Saxon migration to the Federal Republic of Germany.

The reason for my visit to Telmacel was to set to rest a nagging academic's curiosity, having stumbled upon an unelaborated reference in a document to a family Beilschmidt, which once dwelled in the environs of the village. It appeared that the historic Beilschmidt residence had been destroyed by fire in early 1932, though no mention was made as to the fate of the family itself.

According to my research, the Beilschmidt line can be traced back centuries, possibly to the earliest Saxon colonization in the 12th century. They were Barons, prominent enough to be mentioned occasionally in administrative records of the region, though never turning up in any other authoritative accounts. I thought that might be easily remedied by consulting local histories, especially as to the mysterious fire and sudden disappearance of the family name from the records. I hoped I would even be able, with a little luck, to question some elderly residents of the village who might still have memories of the house, the family, and the circumstances of its apparently untimely end.

In this venture I was successful: indeed more so than I could have ever anticipated. What I found when I delved into the mystery of the Beilschmidts is, to my academic eye, hardly to be believed. And yet believed it must be, at least inasmuch as the audial, visual, and written documents that I retrieved cannot have been tampered with. As for whether these documents were produced authentically in the first place, I cannot vouch one hundred percent; but I say this with the caveat that mine is a field of research that does not know absolutes, and in any case I myself investigated every possible "reasonable" explanation for that which is here to be read, seen, and heard, and could find no shred of evidence to support a single one of them.

For better or for worse, this is no scientific report; I doubt my colleagues would have much patience to review a case that is at its heart so clearly _unscientific_. I myself hesitated to publish my findings for this reason, but in the end I felt that keeping such extraordinary materials to myself would be a burden I could not bear.

That is exactly the burden that eighty-year-old Erzsébet Héderváry carried with her for sixty long years, however. After an initial inquiry in Telmacel, I was quickly directed to her for information regarding the Beilschmidts.

As her name suggests, Ms. Héderváry comes from a Hungarian family, which arrived in Sibiu at the time when it lay at the easternmost reaches of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. After the establishment of Greater Romania in the interwar period, Ms. Héderváry's family remained with the Hungarian minority in the nearby town of Talmaciu. In the summer of 1931 Ms. Héderváry was employed by Ludwig Beilschmidt, the last Baron Beilschmidt, as a housekeeper. In this capacity she served as an eye-witness to the events of winter 1931-32 that led to the destruction of the house and the disappearance of its owner. By a mixture of good luck and quick thinking, she was also able to save her employer's journal and several reels of film negatives as well as discs of audio recordings, which L. Beilschmidt made as a hobbyist.

What I present in this volume are the most pertinent documents of Ms. Héderváry's collection: excerpts from the journal of L. Beilschmidt and transcripts of selected audio and film recordings, which I have taken down myself. These documents in their unadulterated form, along with Ms. Héderváry's first-hand account, speak for themselves. I will only supplement briefly the context in which the events beginning in late 1931 took place.

The first decades of the 20th century were not kind to the fortunes of the Beilschmidt family. In 1909 the Baroness Beilschmidt died giving birth to a second son: the aforementioned Ludwig. The elder son served in the army of the Austro-Hungarian Empire during the First World War and survived, but by a cruel twist of fate his life was claimed by a plague that swept through the region only months after his return home. This much I was able to deduce from the church records I consulted, though both brothers' names have been intentionally scratched out in every entry.

After the war, Transylvania became a part of Greater Romania. Under the land reforms of the new government, the Beilschmidts, like many other wealthy Saxons, lost much of their land. With their livelihood practically gone, the family fell into difficult financial straits. When Ludwig's father the Baron died in late 1930, he left his son in a considerable amount of debt, with a house that he could not possibly hope to keep up on the available budget.

I claim in my title that this is a "true account," and so it is, insofar as these sources truly come from the hands and mouths of those who witnessed that series of strange events sixty years ago. As to their accuracy or honesty, I will let the reader judge for themselves. If you can still doubt after reading them, then you are a greater skeptic than I.

— _E.P., 1992_

* * *

_1\. From the oral interview with Erzsébet Héderváry, 1992:_

He took me on because Frau Groza was getting too old to look after the house by herself. She'd been with the family for years; he couldn't just let her go. He provided for her, even though there really wasn't money to spare. She had nowhere else to go.

She never talked to me about the family history. Our relationship was strictly professional. She was a bit severe, to tell the truth, but it was clear she'd grown fond of the Baron over the years. She watched him grow up, after all. And he was fond of her too. I think maybe she'd become something of a mother-figure to him. He didn't really have anyone else. Rarely went to the village. He was a bit eccentric; kept to himself and his books. And he was obsessed with film and sound technologies, always playing around with his newest contraptions. But then I guess he needed something to keep him busy, all alone like that.

He had just become engaged when I arrived, though. I don't remember her name… She was a distant cousin of his, I think. I never met her.

He wasn't a bad employer by any means. Kind, but distant. I got a bit lonely living up there, actually. The house was a ways from the village. The only people I saw regularly outside of Frau Groza and the Baron were the few delivery people who would come up to the house every week with groceries, post, the like.

But there I was, a young thing with an active imagination in this big old house—a schloss really, in the old Germanic style—so of course I fell to exploring when I didn't have chores to attend to. It really was a grand old place, though it had clearly seen better days. We kept most of the house boarded up so that we'd be able to heat the rooms we used more easily: that was the kitchen, our servants' quarters, the Baron's room, and his study. The Baron usually took his meals alone in there, and Frau Groza and I ate in the kitchen

Anyway, there were many rooms beyond that in the house, of course, so I'd sneak off to have a look around. Pretend I was the mistress of the place, that sort of thing. But I remember one time I decided I would go see the attic, which I'd never been to. Now, I didn't have the key to the attic; I'd been given copies of most keys, but not that one. I was simply told I had all the keys I needed. But no one ever said I wasn't to go into the attic, so I thought why not? I took Frau Groza's keys while she was napping by the fireplace, and I went up there.

It was a fairly regular attic, used as storage for all manner of dusty old furniture. I was just going to start poking around in some drawers when I heard footsteps hurrying up the stairs. I hadn't bothered to lock the door behind me.

And I felt I wasn't doing anything wrong, really, but still I felt a bit guilty—but it would have been quite foolish to try to hide. So the Baron appeared at the top of the stairs and I remember his face was quite white. He looked at me and asked what I was doing there; I think I stammered something about Frau Groza sending me to find the old silver for polishing. Then he told me curtly that the silver chest was in the cellar, and there wasn't anything I needed in the attic, so there shouldn't be any reason for me to go back up there again. I'd never heard him speak so sharply. Needless to say it gave me quite a shock, so I apologized and left in a hurry.

After that I always had an odd sort of feeling about the attic. I stayed away from it, but I was terribly curious. I noticed a few times that the Baron would disappear up there, for an hour at a time or more. He never mentioned what he did and I didn't ask.

* * *

_2\. From the journal of Ludwig Beilschmidt, 1931:_

October 23.

Only one week until Kat arrives. Unsure what I feel. Mostly nervous, I think. The whole thing is entirely old-fashioned; knowing so little about one's fiancée, I mean. I only saw her briefly at Father's funeral, and before that it had been years. But it was practically Father's dying wish. He believed her money would save the estate. Maybe he's right. And her parents seem to think it a favorable match as well, though I can't imagine why. Could it only be for the title? A baron hardly amounts to much. They know the fortune is gone.

Maybe she's just as nervous as I am. She doesn't know me either, after all. That must be a frightening thing for a young woman, going to live with a man she barely knows but who is to be her husband. How can I make her feel welcome? How can I put her fears to rest, especially when I have so many of my own?

I am, frankly put, absolutely clueless about women. Frau Groza is the only woman who has been in my life for any considerable length of time. How's that for a young bachelor? Long-time experience living with woman; never mind she's over 70.

Well now there's Erzsébet as well, but I don't really know her yet. She's nice enough, competent. I feel a little sorry she only has Fr. G. for company. Maybe she and Kat will get along. I do hope so.

Most boys at least have women and girls in their lives who might catch their fancy, whom they might think about and admire, even try to court in their boyish fashion. And they can watch how the older boys and men go about it, so that by the time they're grown they have at least an idea of the whole thing. I realize now what a disadvantage I'm at in that respect. When I think back, I cannot even recall a single girl I was ever drawn to, out of the small handful whose acquaintance I made.

I had a long talk with G. about it today. I figured he would understand, or at least listen to my concerns. He could only say that I should be patient; I can't settle anything until she gets here in any case. Then once I know her a bit better things will fall into place. I hope he's right.

What I am most nervous about, I realize, is whether we'll have enough in common, or enough understanding of each other, to provide true companionship. I have been quite terribly lonely since Father's death, to speak truly. To have a like mind, a confidant, a friend; this, I feel, would do wonders for my spirits, which have recently been in such a depression.

I expect the Model K to arrive with the next post delivery; that, if nothing else, should improve my mood!

...

October 25.

Model K arrived. Order of extra film stock yet to come. Very excited to try out; will write more later.

Later.

Couldn't be more satisfied with the Model K. Light, easy to operate, can record up to about three whole minutes at a time.

I wonder if Kat is fond of movies.

...

October 27.

I can hardly believe the words I am about to write. Putting them down on paper makes them seem that much more real, that much more horrible.

The postman came this morning; that was the first indication that something was off, since he was last here only two days ago. He had express post to deliver, however. Still, the letter was already a couple days old; these are the disadvantages of living in such a remote place. The only telephone in the village belongs to the doctor, and it has only two lines; either here to the house or to Talmaciu. So there is no way we could have received the information sooner.

I suppose there is no use delaying it: Kat has died. Shortly before my last entry. She fell quite suddenly ill and the doctor could do nothing as she wasted away with fever over the course of a week. The disease was unidentified. She did not strike me as the sickly type, but I suppose it only proves that sickness and death do not discriminate.

I am in shock. I cannot say that I am grief-stricken, for I hardly knew her. But it is quite a blow to overcome; the woman who I thought was to be my wife and life-long companion is suddenly gone out of this world: a young life cut cruelly short. Just when I was beginning to get used to the idea of having another soul here, a woman even, in this empty old house. It was even a comforting prospect.

I visited with G. for quite a while, and we were silent together. It was better than being around Frau Groza. I know she means well but her attempts at consolation, even in her restrained manner, were somewhat stifling, plying me with tea and throwing me long, mournful looks when she thought I wouldn't notice. She fears I will grow old and die alone.

Perhaps that is to be my fate.

...

October 31.

I only write now quickly before retiring to bed, for something most unexpected and unusual has occurred.

As twilight was drawing nigh and the road up to the mountain pass was darkening, I heard a motor engine in the distance. At first I hardly marked it, but it grew louder, coming in through the study window I had left ajar for a breath of fresh air. Soon it became clear that there was a vehicle speeding up the road towards the house, and, naturally curious, I peered out the window to watch.

Around the bend came a jet-black Mercedes Benz, apparently brand new, the likes of which I have only ever seen in pictures or films. My astonishment quickly turned to alarm, however, when I apprehended the speed at which the car was approaching the next bend. It must have been going 70 or 80 km/h! And on an unpaved mountain road!

Well, I thought, this madman is going to crash; but what could I do? I looked on helplessly as the car swerved wide at the corner and tipped right over, skidding well off the road. It looked quite ghastly and I couldn't help but think that perhaps I was cursed somehow, having lost my father, then my fiancée within a year, and then right on the heels of that tragedy having a complete stranger die just as he was driving past my home.

But of course I put those thoughts aside to hurry down and see what could be done. Fr. G. and E. accompanied me. We arrived at the wreckage and there was smoke trailing up from under the hood of the car. I told the ladies to stay back, fearful of what grisly sight might await me within the carriage. I climbed atop the side of the car and pulled the driver's door open, and found a still, crumpled form within. I feared the worst. Nevertheless, with some effort I pulled the driver out of the car and laid him on the ground.

That was when I was finally able to get a good look at who this reckless, and apparently wealthy, fellow was. I was quite surprised to find he was a young man, roughly my own age. But what a striking young man! His skin was—or I should say is, seeing as he is indeed still with us—his skin is pale to the extreme, but rather than being an unflattering, sickly pallor, this paleness makes him appear frail in an almost refined way, inspiring feelings of both tenderness and awe in any who behold him. Astonishingly, his hair is nearly as white as his skin, adding to the almost ethereal quality his presence exudes. Finally, his noble image is completed with a certain daintiness of the features that I would almost call feminine, were it not for the so clearly masculine cut of his jaw, brow, and shoulders.

All this I observed in an instant, and immediately felt a burning curiosity to know _who this man was_ , and what urgent task had brought him to such a remote location at that hour. Remarkably, no injury was visible on his body, and when I felt for a pulse, my heart leapt to find that he still lived.

Being moved must have roused him, for at that point he awoke, and I beheld what is surely his most unusual feature: his eyes. They are a color I have never before seen in human eyes—a deep, dark, reddish color reminiscent of wine, or blood. I was arrested by their appearance, all the more so when I realized they were fixed on me. He could not seem to tear his eyes away from my face. Perhaps he was simply relieved to know he had been found and was in someone's care.

It grows late, so I will be brief concerning what happened next. We were able to ascertain that the man was not in great pain; by some miracle he sustained no major injuries. We carried him to the house and set up one of the old rooms for him, gave him some soup—which he barely touched—and put him to bed. Of course he must remain here until he is well enough to continue on his way. Despite his lack of obvious injury he seems very weak and could barely speak. He adamantly refused our offer to call for the doctor, however. Beyond that, all that I was able to gather was his name: Gilbert.

So we have a new guest in the house after all. He may well be off again in a few days, but I will admit I am eager for the company and distraction from recent woes, if this Gilbert is well enough to provide it. I hope it doesn't seem too improprietous of me to say, considering recent events. I know my prayers should be with Kat in Heaven and her family on earth, and now too with Gilbert for his swift recovery, but is it too much to ask that for a few days only I might not need be so alone? I am very keen to learn more of our mysterious guest.

...

November 1.

Our guest slept until well past noon today. I cannot blame him though, after what he survived yesterday. In fact I couldn't stop worrying that perhaps he was indeed in need of the doctor, and I ought to send for him despite Gilbert's wishes; but thankfully this does not appear to be the case. I was very gladdened to see that he even accepted some of the food Frau Groza brought to him. She only let me into his room for a brief time after he woke, as he needs his rest—which I understand, but I would have gladly stayed much longer, because finally I was able to actually speak with him—and what a fascinating character he is!

When I entered the room he was sitting up in bed, and immediately his eyes struck me once again. I did my best not to stare, for the last thing I want is to appear rude to this young man of obviously respectable background. But he smiled when he saw me, and this put me right at ease. His is such an easy smile, it almost made me feel as though I were greeting an old friend.

'You must be Ludwig,' he said. 'Please excuse me, my memory of yesterday is quite hazy. I really wasn't myself, so I do apologize if I seemed at all curt or ungrateful for the kind hospitality you have shown me'—or something to that effect.

His voice was scratchy, but somehow not unpleasant. I think I had been expecting a far more genteel, affected voice; so this, too, put me at ease.

I responded by saying there was nothing to excuse, and I only hoped this hazy memory was not indicative of some more serious injury. He assured me the effects had been quite temporary, and he now felt perfectly himself apart from a general weakness in his limbs.

I could tell from his accent and dialect that he must be a Saxon like myself, and more than that, if my ears do not deceive me, from this very region; but I thought I was well enough acquainted with the prominent families of the county to be able to recognize one of their sons if he stumbled upon my doorstep. So I asked him from whence he hailed, and if we hadn't met before; for something about him did feel so familiar to me.

He assured me we had never met, for he surely would have remembered if we had—I'm not sure exactly what to make of that statement. But then he frowned, or scowled, and this had a surprisingly strong effect on me. I found my stomach sinking at the mere sight of his lips drawing down in unhappiness, and I knew in that instant I must do everything in my power to ensure Gilbert's happiness, and never upset him; though in this case I wasn't aware what exactly had upset him. I soon found out though:

'Please, do not ask me where I come from. I know, it must seem unfair, since I am in your home and the beneficiary of your good-heartedness, but this is something I cannot discuss under any circumstances. I beg of you not to ask me about it again.'

Needless to say, I was amazed by such a strange response. But how could I contradict his request? He seemed sensible to how odd it was, and was not at all lacking in self-consciousness regarding it; I could tell how uncomfortable it all made him, and despite my burning curiosity sympathy won out. The last thing I wish for is to add to this man's discomfort and misfortune—for I can only imagine that misfortune would lead such a man to speed along a mountain road in the late evening—misfortune, and great urgency.

'Very well, if that is your request of course I must comply,' I said. 'But tell me this, if you can; where were you going in such a rush that caused you to drive so recklessly?'

Gilbert grimaced again, and said something along these lines: 'Alas; that I cannot fully explain without revealing that which I have already sworn not to reveal. I can only say that as soon as I am well enough, I must try to get my car into working order and continue on my way before the mountain pass is snowed in.'

My instinct was of course to ask what on earth anyone could possibly need so urgently that the pass would be worth risking at this time of year; after all, there are other, longer ways around the mountains where one does not run the risk of being caught in an avalanche or simply stuck in snow drifts to freeze or starve to death. But I held my tongue, and also, I admit, suppressed no small amount of disappointment that Gilbert was so eager to leave. Instead, I cautioned him, out of true concern and cool-headed assessment, that it was already dangerous enough to attempt the pass at the beginning of November, and whatever his errand, he should reconsider it with great caution.

At this he smiled, and proclaimed how lucky he was to have fallen into the hands of such a kind and concerned stranger, who would counsel him so; I was quite flustered and assured him any of the good-hearted folk of the region would do the same, but he insisted on his good fortune in finding his way to the house of Beilschmidt.

At his mention of the family name, I realized Frau Groza must have told Gilbert where and with whom he was, as I had given no formal introduction. I apologized for forgetting my manners, and asked if I were really to have not even a family name from him. He politely declined once again. I asked if he didn't have any relatives who would be quite concerned as to his whereabouts; this question seemed to make him melancholy.

'Alas, my family is a dwindling one. I have known much loss. There is hardly a soul in my life who would care to know where I am, and in what condition,' he replied.

This tragic answer affected me greatly. My heart went out to this stranger; despite how little I know of him I feel nevertheless a great affinity for him, as though our lives were meant to intersect. I told him with all sympathy that I, too, have known loss; I told him about Father.

He inquired if this was why I wore black. Sheepishly, I admitted that my father had died nearly a year ago, and that I wore mourning now for my fiancée. This news alarmed Gilbert and he immediately offered his sincere condolences, and excused himself for imposing on my hospitality at such an inopportune time. I assured him he is anything but an imposition, and so as not to seem cold I hastened to explain that though I feel quite wretched about the girl's death, I barely knew her, and mourning was really nothing more than a formality.

Then he asked me, 'You were ready to marry a woman you barely know? You were prepared to spend the rest of your life with someone who was practically a stranger?'

I told him it was my father's wish, and seeing as I had no other immediate prospects for marriage, and the girl seemed agreeable, I consented to the match.

Gilbert's eyes grew sad at that, and he said, 'How cruel, to live a life devoid of passion, of true tenderness. You have been spared a terrible and lonely fate.'

I must admit I wasn't sure how to react to that. I felt like I ought to be offended at the suggestion that Kat's passing could possibly have benefitted me, as though that makes me guilty of her death. I thought it quite inconsiderate of him to say, and yet I realized the truth in his words. It's possible we would not have gotten along at all. Perhaps I have narrowly avoided consigning myself to a dreary future. But still, it does not mean I derive any joy from the premature death of an innocent woman, plucked from the prime of life; and I told Gilbert that if he supposed I did then he was quite mistaken.

'Oh forgive me, I have offended you,' he said. 'I was only thinking of you, and how deserving you are of happiness.' His response was so heartfelt that I could do nothing other than forgive him at once. Now I feel quite foolish for having reacted against his words so strongly, when he was in fact only thinking of my own good. His is an empathetic heart, it seems.

Then Fr. G. came back and shooed me out of the room, scolding me for staying so long and tiring out our guest. Gilbert's eyes did look ever more sunken and shadowed throughout our conversation, and I had no doubt he needed some more sleep.

This is the only interaction I have had with Gilbert so far; I do hope he recovers his spirits quickly—enough to have a longer conversation at least, if not to drive an automobile.

...

November 5.

I know; I have been neglecting my writing the past few days. But what a refreshing experience it is to have a true conversation partner in this large old house! Gilbert still sleeps long and rises late, but he has indeed been a most agreeable companion the past few days, and we have sat together and spoken for hours at a time. Such an effect has this sociability had on me that I hardly feel like myself; I have always considered myself to be a self-sufficient person, content with my own company, but now I don't know how I should do without Gilbert. To speak freely, I dread his departure more with each passing day. That must seem terribly over exaggerated, but when I think of facing the prospect of a nearly empty house once again, my stomach churns and my heart aches.

I do not wish to dwell on it. Tomorrow I will show Gilbert some of my recordings and films; it seems he is quite interested in these technologies as well. Yet another thing we share! (Besides the similar tastes in music and literature, which we have already discussed at length.)

The latest post delivery brought the film stock. The postman is a strong young man, so I had him help me set Gilbert's car upright and move it to the garage. It was strenuous work, but we managed it and I gave him a good tip for his efforts.

...

November 6.

Gilbert was delighted by what I showed him. I played a few of my recordings of Father's piano playing; that brought back some bittersweet memories. I do miss Father. I also played some recordings of myself reading some of my favorite poetry and other works. I'm afraid I'm not a very talented performer, but Gilbert seemed to enjoy them all the same. I think tomorrow I will show him the recorder. And I must show him the Model K as well.

* * *

_3\. Audio recording by Ludwig Beilschmidt, dated November 7, 1931:_

_(Gilbert's voice sounds somewhat feeble for most of the recording.)_

Gilbert: So, how does this work now?

Ludwig Beilschmidt: Just talk. Don't worry about it.

G.: Don't worry about it? This is being recorded for all posterity, isn't it? I should say something meaningful.

L.B.: If you wish.

G.: Well then. I hereby make it known, to any and all who may be listening—

L.B.: _(Laughing)_ You don't have to be so formal.

G.: Nonsense, of course I do. I hereby declare my undying gratitude to and fondness for Ludwig Beilschmidt, who has been my savior in my hour of need, and a dear companion.

L.B.: You flatter me much too much.

G.: But it's true. You simply don't see it yet. You have delivered me.

L.B.: From what evil, dare I ask?

G.: That I cannot say. Not now.

L.B.: Ever the man of mystery.

G.: You know what I've told you. When the time is right…

L.B.: Yes, yes. _(He sighs.)_ Please forgive my curiosity. I do not mean to press you.

G.: There is nothing to forgive. It's only natural. I regret that I cannot tell you more. To be honest, if circumstances did not constrain me… I would confide all in you. You are a true friend, Ludwig.

L.B.: Well, I look forward to that day when circumstances constrain you no longer.

G.: As do I.

L.B.: But I know you do not wish to dwell on the subject. Let's discuss something else.

_(There is rustling, as of someone sitting on something soft. Perhaps L.B. sitting on G.'s bed?)_

G.: Do you propose a subject of conversation?

L.B.: Why must I decide?

G.: I suppose you mustn't. Well, I did want to tell you how I enjoyed your reading, on that record you played yesterday. I believe I could listen to that all day.

L.B.: _(Laughing)_ Oh, I wouldn't dream of subjecting you to such torture.

G.: Torture? On the contrary! Yours is such a soothing voice. You've no idea what a comfort it is just to hear you speak.

L.B.: _(Flustered)_ I am glad, then, that it is in my power to provide some comfort.

G.: Indeed it is. And besides, _Faust_ is one of my favorites. You should make some more recordings from it.

L.B.: Do you think so?

G.: Of course! You make an exceptional Faust: that noble seeker of Truth. It's very fitting.

L.B.: Well, thank you. But I can't do Mephistopheles for the life of me. I'm afraid I would ruin it.

G.: Then I'll be the Mephistopheles to your Faust.

_(Recites)_

I am the spirit that negates.

And rightly so, for all that comes to be

Deserves to perish wretchedly;

'Twere better nothing would begin.

Thus everything that your terms, sin,

Destruction, evil represent—

That is my proper element.

L.B.: Oh, very good! But you're a proper actor!

G.: That might be going a bit too far, but thank you.

L.B.: No, it's most deserved. And to think, you had that memorized!

G.: As I said, it's one of my favorites. It is such an endlessly fascinating story, isn't it? And the question at its heart: what is the price of a soul? It makes one wonder…

L.B.: I think that belongs to questions that aren't meant to be answered.

G.: But can't you think of anything, anything at all, for which you would be ready to sacrifice your soul?

L.B.: But a soul is sacred, Gilbert. It can't be used for barter. And besides, the prospect of eternity in Hell would be enough to spoil the enjoyment of anything I could ask for.

G.: And if you could live forever? You wouldn't ever need to face Hell then.

L.B.: _(Laughing)_ What a ridiculous question. It's impossible to say—

G.: Humor me, please.

L.B.: _(He sighs good-naturedly.)_ Very well. If I were to live forever… Actually, I don't think I should like to live forever. It would grow terribly lonely, wouldn't it? And sad, having to watch everyone you know die. I think in the end it would be more a curse than a blessing.

_(G.'s voice now becomes softer and breathier as he speaks, but also more earnest.)_

G.: Yes, to be alone for eternity… That is a curse. But, if you didn't need to be alone? What if you had someone with you, someone with whom to share eternity? Someone you loved very much…

_(L.B.'s voice changes as well. He speaks slowly, weakly.)_

L.B.: I suppose… If I loved them very much…

G.: Yes, you would do it, wouldn't you… You would make the pact sealed in blood… _(Whispers)_ Blood is a juice of a very special kind.

_(There is silence for ten seconds.)_

_(L.B. gasps. His voice is normal again.)_

L.B.: Oh, it's freezing in here, isn't it? I'm sorry; these rooms are really impossible to keep warm. I'll have Erzsébet start a fire. Oh—your hands! They're ice! It wouldn't do at all to have you catch cold now. I'm afraid I've worn you out today, haven't I?

G.: No, no, please, don't worry yourself.

L.B.: But you do look so tired. I'll have Frau Groza fix you something and I'll let you rest a bit.

G.: Oh please, you mustn't go. I'm quite alright—

_(There is a knock and the door to the room opens.)_

L.B.: Speak of the devil! There, now I don't have to go anywhere. Your timing is impeccable, Frau Groza.

Frau Groza: And just who are you calling a devil?

_(There are footsteps and the muffled clattering of a tray being carried.)_

L.B.: Certainly not you, Frau Groza. You are an angel.

_(The tray is set down.)_

F.G.: Well, I thought you two could use something to eat. Something warm; the weather's getting colder by the day—

_(She cuts off suddenly and there is a pause.)_

L.B.: Frau Groza? Frau Groza, are you quite alright?

_(F.G.'s voice is suddenly deeper and very distressed.)_

F.G.: You! You're not who you say you are!

L.B.: Frau Groza! Really, what—

F.G.: It's impossible, impossible!

_(Someone bumps into a piece of furniture.)_

F.G. (cont'd): Get out! You shouldn't be here!

_(Blankets rustle and bedsprings creak—perhaps G. jumping out of bed. His voice is harsh.)_

G.: Insolent old woman! What sort of accusation—

L.B.: Please! Please, Gilbert! Frau Groza, calm down—

F.G.: I know you!

G.: I've never seen you in my life! She's mad, Ludwig.

_(F.G. groans in fear and panic continuously in the background.)_

L.B.: She's not mad; she's simply very old, she doesn't know what she's saying.

F.G.: Herr Beilschmidt, you must listen to me—

G.: Old! More like ancient! I'm surprised she's still standing!

L.B.: Gilbert!

_(The groaning stops. L.B. grunts.)_

L.B. (cont'd): Frau Groza!

_(There is the scraping of furniture and the sound of what is probably F.G. being set down in a chair.)_

L.B. (cont'd): Good God, she's fainted!

G.: How could you allow her to rave at me like that?

L.B.: Gilbert, please, have some understanding! Something's excited her, that's all. She's just an old woman; you ought to be kinder.

_(G.'s voice is suddenly feeble again.)_

G.: You're right, I'm terribly sorry… I'm not myself…

_(Someone sits on the bed—probably G.)_

L.B.: Just wait here and rest, and keep an eye on her. I'm going to fetch some water.

_(There are footsteps.)_

L.B.: Oh, this thing's still on. I forg—

_(Recording ends.)_

[As perhaps the reader knows, "blood is a juice of a very special kind" is another line spoken by Mephistopheles in Goethe's _Faust_. —E.P.]

* * *

_4\. From the journal of Ludwig Beilschmidt, 1931:_

November 7.

What an odd thing happened today! I was with Gilbert when Frau Groza came in to bring us lunch, and suddenly she became very frightened and started raving on about Gilbert, saying horrible things and telling him to leave. It was shocking, but Gilbert reacted quite badly. He said some very mean things about her, though he did apologize in the end. I suppose it's none too pleasant to have someone start yelling at you to get out of their house and claiming you're an imposter of some sort. I have no idea what came over Fr. G.

And neither does she, it seems. I spoke with her after she was revived (she had fainted) and she couldn't remember any of it. I know she's been showing her age physically, but now I fear for her mind as well. This is what I fear most of old age, or at least of watching others age; they can turn into a different person, and before they've even passed away you already feel you've lost them. I hope it does not come to that with Fr. G. So far this is an isolated incident. But it almost makes me glad that Father went when he did, so I did not have see the man I loved slipping away. When he died he was still himself, and that's how I'll remember him.

...

November 8.

Winter has snuck up on us, as it sometimes does here in the mountains. This morning I awoke to find the roads completely covered. I had to help E. clear the snow away from the doors; it was piled up over a meter high! It is quite beautiful though; I always think the first snowfall casts an enchantment on the mountain landscape.

I explained to Gilbert that once we get a snow like this, the pass certainly won't be clear until spring. He seemed disheartened by the news; he must postpone his journey. He asked if there were any place in the village where he might take residence until the spring, but I told him that that was a ridiculous idea; he must stay with us. He tried to argue but I wouldn't allow it, and in the end he conceded with deep gratitude. I know he is probably terribly disappointed that he must wile away the long winter here, when there is clearly something so pressing on his mind, but I must say I am glad I will have him for company during these months when I see even fewer souls than during the rest of the year. Anyone with sense steers clear of the mountains in winter, if they can.

...

November 10.

I did not write yesterday because I could not bring myself to. I am cursed, it must be. One tragedy follows so quickly on the heels of another.

Yesterday morning Erzsébet found Frau Groza dead in her bed. She had died in her sleep. We called Dr. Istrati, who came with the Orthodox priest up to the house. (Frau Groza kept the religion of her countrymen, and will be buried accordingly.) Of course with all the snow it took them nearly the whole day; they stayed the night and today the arrangements for her burial were made.

In addition to that, Gilbert has been quite ill, but he refused to let the doctor into his room. He insisted he merely needs rest, and has stayed in bed for nearly two whole days straight. Dr. Istrati told me to call if his condition worsens. If anything were to happen to Gilbert now I don't think I could survive it. At the moment he is the only person holding me above the pit of despair that's opened beneath me. It seems everyone I've held dear in life, everyone I might grow close to, has been cruelly ripped away. If it were not for Gilbert, I would have no one at all. What a blessing it is that he has come into my life, just on time to save me from the terrible blows of the last few weeks. He assured me, when I sat with him yesterday, that I was not alone; that he would not leave me, as long as I need him.

I pray Frau Groza's soul has found Heaven quickly. At least I have the comfort that she went peacefully in her sleep. She was the closest to a mother I ever had. A strict governess and housekeeper, who would not tolerate disorder, but also a woman with a good and kind heart, who anticipated my every need and cared for me for so many years. Dear Frau Groza! You will be sorely missed—rest in everlasting peace!

...

November 14.

I regret not being able to write more over the past few days, but I have been terribly tired. The effects of grief, I expect.

Frau Groza has been buried. Gilbert is doing considerably better, I am glad to report. He's even come out of his room a few times.

Before I forget it, I want to make a note of a very strange dream I had the other night—after I wrote my last entry. At first I thought something had woken me, but now I realize that too was part of the dream. But I was in my bed, and I felt the sensation that someone was in the room with me, watching me. I looked to the foot of my bed and there was a figure there; nothing but a dark silhouette. All I could see were its eyes, for they glowed red. They were fixed on me, staring with such intensity that I felt completely frozen in place—utterly helpless. Those eyes inspired such dread in me, and yet something more than that too. I had the feeling that I knew those eyes from somewhere, and despite their terrifying appearance, I felt myself simultaneously drawn to them. I wanted to hide and protect myself from their gaze, but I also wanted to lay myself bare before it.

Then the figure moved—slithered, almost—onto the bed, but I could not feel its weight on the mattress. Nor could I feel its touch as the shadow moved along my body, from my feet up to my torso, until those eyes were right before my own. I could only feel a great weight holding me down, and I was very cold. Tingling cold, as if tiny icy needles were sticking into me all over my body. I couldn't look away from the eyes.

After that my memory is not so clear. I know there was more to the dream, but all I can recall is feeling some pain, and a strange, floating pleasantness.

I have never dreamed anything like it, and am not sure what to make of it. I am sure Mr. Freud would draw some interesting conclusions from such a strange account. Perhaps my sleep has simply been disturbed by recent tragedies. That would also explain why I haven't felt at all well rested the past few days.

...

November 16.

I have been feeling a little better the past two days. Gilbert is doing better than ever, though he still sleeps until afternoon every day. Simply seeing him able to move around does me much good, and bless his soul, he's done everything in his power to comfort me the past week. Today I showed him how the Model K works, which he found quite fascinating; apparently he's never used a film camera before. He refused to let me take any video recording of him, however, insisting that he hates photographs of himself and is sure a video recording would be that much worse.

I showed him on my projector some of my old films as well; some nature scenes, like flocks of autumn geese heading south, or the bee I caught on film pollinating a flower. Then some scenes of everyday life, including the time I convinced Frau Groza to let me film her cooking a meal. I remember she asked me why on earth I would want to do that; I told her I wanted to remember it. Now I am quite glad I did. She looks happy in the film. Not smiling wide, which she hardly ever did, but content and in her element, casting a suspicious glance at the camera now and then. It makes me grin, but also makes my chest ache. Another loved one gone. Thank God for Gilbert! He is so good to me.

He says I've filmed so many things but never myself, and that simply won't stand. He's threatening to make up for it and claims he'll film me, now that he knows how to. I suppose I understand his objection to being filmed—I think I would feel terribly self-conscious under the scrutiny of a camera. But perhaps it will be fun.

* * *

_5\. Film strips from the collection of Ludwig Beilschmidt:_

Dated November 17, 1931. 1 min 29 sec.

_Ludwig Beilschmidt is sitting up in bed with a book. He is in his pajamas and the blankets are tucked over his lap. He is reading as the camera approaches the foot of the bed (from the direction of the door)._

_L.B. looks up at the camera. He has dark circles under his eyes but smiles in amusement and closes his book. He says a few words. He watches the person holding the camera (assumed to be Gilbert) with a wry smile, then raises his eyebrows and looks dubious in a good-natured way._

_G. sits on the bed, the camera still pointed at L.B. At no point does any part of G. appear on camera._

_L.B. assumedly listens to what G. is saying. He then gestures to the camera and says something. From the movement of his lips his sentence appears to begin with "you know."_

_He listens to G.'s response and chuckles. He apparently concedes to a request with a small nod of the head. He then looks into the camera, places one hand over his chest, and speaks._

_The following words can be made out by lip-reading: "My name is Ludwig Beilschmidt, and I (…) I feel (…) Gilbert (…) but I must say (…) without sound."_

_He listens and chuckles again, and reaches a hand out towards G. (out of frame). His head tilts to the side and he says something that begins with "why."_

_Film ends._

...

Dated November 18, 1931. 59 sec.

_L.B. is sitting in an armchair in a dressing robe and reading aloud from a book. This is assumedly in the study, as his surroundings are not those of a bedchamber. From the light there appears to be a fire in a fireplace to L.B.'s right. There is a bookshelf behind him._

_L.B. glances up and stops speaking. He says something to G. (again assumed to be recording). L.B. laughs and shrugs. He points towards the fireplace and says something._

_The camera pans to the fireplace and pauses on the flames for about seven seconds. Then it moves back to L.B._

_L.B. says something earnestly and gestures between himself and G. He seems to be suggesting G. be in the film as well. Apparently he receives an answer in the negative; he looks disappointed but also fondly amused._

_L.B. speaks: "I (don't) understand why (…) but you (…)"_

_Film ends._

...

Dated November 19, 1931. 38 sec.

_L.B. is in the study again, this time on a sofa. G. seems to be sitting next to him and filming him in profile from less than a meter away._

_L.B. is speaking animatedly. It is impossible to make out what he is saying in profile._

_He glances at G. and appears to notice the camera for the first time. His eyes widen and he laughs in surprise. He says something to G.: "(Were) you (…) time?" After he receives his answer his eyes grow wider in mock anger. Still smiling, he says: "You are—" and breaks off, laughing._

_The camera gets closer to L.B., who holds up a hand to try to keep it away. It appears G. is teasing L.B. by bringing the camera ever closer, even as L.B. turns his head away, still smiling. L.B. leans back until he is forced into a prone position on the couch with the camera over him. He laughs as it gets closer and closer to his face._

_The image goes in and out of focus. The last clear picture is a close-up view of L.B.'s eye._

_Film ends._

...

Undated. Handwritten note by E. Héderváry reads "late November (?)". 33 sec.

_L.B. lies in bed. His condition is much deteriorated from the last recording. The circles under his eyes have darkened and his eyelids droop. He is not looking at the camera. He says something, his lips barely moving._

_G. appears to sit on the bed with the camera, close to L.B., whose head and shoulders fill up most of the frame. It is unlikely that G. is holding the viewfinder to his eye, as the angle is low, as if the camera is resting on his lap, and L.B. looks above the camera to make eye contact with G._

_L.B. shakes his head._

_G. readjusts the camera slightly._

_L.B. closes his eyes. He leans his head towards G._

_L.B.'s mouth goes slack. He breathes heavily and quickly for several seconds._

_He shudders violently. His chest stills, so there is no visible sign of breath._

_His eyelids flutter open. Slowly, his eyes roll up into the back of his head until only the whites are showing._

_Film ends._

* * *

_6\. From the journal of Ludwig Beilschmidt, 1931:_

November 24.

I'm afraid I've taken ill again, or whatever this strange lethargy is. I actually don't feel sick at all; but the languor that has filled me the past few days is completely foreign to me. Even E. has commented on it; she prepares my breakfast later and later every day.

But I have Gilbert at my side. True to his word, he has made several films of me in the past week, even when I protested I was hardly looking my best. But how he makes me laugh! They are quite diverting things—he showed me a couple.

Something has been troubling me, though. It is probably nothing, but I simply can't get my mind off of it. I had the same dream again, a few nights ago. It was disturbing enough the first time, but this time it was worse—or at least, I remember it more clearly.

I actually saw the figure enter the room this time. It came through the door—but not how one normally does. It actually passed _through the door itself_ , as if solid wood were no barrier for it.

It was still when I looked at it, but every time I blinked, trying to peer through the darkness, it suddenly seemed closer, until it stood right next to the bed, looking down at me. Still with those terrible, enthralling red eyes. I was frozen to the spot. Then it reached out a hand, and by a beam of moonlight shining through the curtains I could see the hand was very pale, but appeared to be human. When it touched my own hand, though, it did not feel human. It was ice cold. This coldness seeped from my hand to the rest of my body, as if my very blood were freezing over. But with the cold came a queer sensation that wasn't altogether unpleasant. I felt very calm, despite the terrifying figure looming over me.

Its hand moved up my arm to my face, and its touch sent shivers through me. Then it crawled onto the bed, and like before, it made no impression on the mattress. However, next it draped itself over me, and this time I was very aware of the weight of the figure itself against my body. All that I was sensible of after that was those eyes, and then a stinging pain that was difficult to locate, followed by a deep ache, as of something from within me being dragged out of my body.

That is all that I remember. But how strange, that I should have the same dream twice now! Or perhaps it is not strange at all—perhaps, were I to consult a Dr. Freud or his likes, the doctor would simply nod knowingly and explain that such things are not uncommon when one has undergone a great deal of emotional stress, as I undoubtedly have in the past few months. I only hope the dream does not return a third time.

...

November 27.

Received a call from Dr. Istrati today. Apparently several young men and women in the village have fallen ill—what he described as most unusual, seeing as they are all in the prime of youth. No one else has taken ill. When I reported my recent lethargy he seemed quite concerned and wanted to come up and see me, but I insisted that other than feeling tired I wasn't at all unwell, and he should spend his time tending to the truly sick. He urged me to let him know at once if my condition worsens.

He also asked after my 'mysterious guest' who wouldn't come out of his room last time he was there, and seemed glad to hear that he, at least, was more lively with every passing day—though he still keeps hours that would have had Frau Groza shaking her head in disapproval. Dusk is so early these days that Gilbert barely sees any daylight at all.

I do hope whatever this illness in the village is, it's not too serious.

I have another dream to report as well. Not the same one as before, thankfully. This one was different, but nevertheless very strange, and very vivid. I honestly thought I was awake at first, as in the dream I rose from my bed and went to the window. I pulled back the curtains and looked out. The moon was near full and almost blinding as it reflected off of the snow.

I saw something dark moving across the white of the ground, not very far from the house. It was moving down the slope in the direction of the village, but not by way of the road. I realized from its movements that it was not human, but a dog-like creature—probably a wolf or jackal, though a rather large one. It's not uncommon for us to have those in the area, so I thought nothing of it—until the beast looked back towards the house. Its eyes were red and glowing. Even from that distance, I recognized them as the eyes of the figure that has visited my dreams twice already. And I was sure that this beast was looking at me, and truly seeing me. I had the impression that the consciousness behind those eyes was not that of an animal at all.

It only looked at me for a moment, though, before turning and slipping away into the shadows of the night.

Upon waking later, I realized that I had never gotten up and looked out the window at all, and that it had all been a dream. The odd thing is, the curtains were open, whereas I always draw them before going to bed—but perhaps I forgot that night, and perhaps the moonlight coming through the window is what disturbed my sleep and brought the dream on in the first place. I do wish I knew how to put this troubled mind to rest, so it would stop generating such disturbing fantasies!

* * *

_7\. Audio recording by Ludwig Beilschmidt, dated December 1, 1931:_

Gilbert: There. I think it's working. Are you ready?

_(L. Beilschmidt's voice is noticeably weaker than in the previous recording.)_

Ludwig Beilschmidt: Yes, I suppose. Which one?

G.: This one, here. It's one of my favorites.

_(There is a muffled sound like shifting weight on a bed. G. probably arranges himself next to L.B.)_

L.B.: Oh, yes, I know it. Alright, then: "To the Moon."

_(Reads)_

Bushes, valleys, silently,

You fill with misty light,

Easing my soul utterly

Again, at last, at night:

Soothingly you cast your gaze

Over a dark country,

As gentle and friendly eyes

Guard my destiny.

Glad, and troubled, times

Echo in my heart,

I walk between pain and delight,

In solitude, apart.

Flow on, beloved flood: flow on!

I'll never know joy again,

Laughter and kisses, both are gone,

And loyalty flows away.

There was a time I had as yet

Life's most precious thing!

Ah, a man can never forget

That which torments him!

River, through the valley, murmur,

Without rest or peace,

For my singing, gently whisper,

Murmuring melodies,

When you rage on winter nights

And then overflow,

Or when around the Spring's delights

Of bursting buds, you go.

Happy are we if, without hate,

Hidden from the world,

We hold a friend to our heart

And with him explore

What, unknown to all their art,

Ignored, by all mankind,

Through the labyrinth of the heart

Wanders in the night.

_(He pauses.)_

L.B. (cont'd): It's a very melancholy poem, isn't it?

G.: I read that it's about a woman who threw herself into a river, to be united in death with the one she loved.

L.B.: How horrible.

G.: No, horrible would be if she remained to live in loneliness and pain, tormented by memory. The conclusion is a resolution, see? She accepts her fate.

L.B.: Drowning in a river? That's rather cold comfort.

G.: Is it though? I think she's speaking about a sort of life after death. The shadow-life of the spirit. Secluded from the world, free to explore the mysteries of the heart and to share them with one dearly beloved… to discover what wanders in the night.

L.B.: _(Chuckling)_ Now you're making it sound like a ghost story.

G.: Why do you sound so skeptical? Do you not believe in the supernatural?

L.B.: I'm simply not sure that that's what Goethe had in mind.

G.: Perhaps not exactly. But you can't deny he has a romantic view of death.

L.B.: Yes, well. He's hardly the only poet.

G.: _(Sighing deeply)_ It's such a lovely thought though, isn't it… An eternity wandering through the night with your heart's own twin…

L.B.: There you go again. I have no idea what you're talking about.

G.: You will. Soon, we will be open with each other. No secrets.

L.B.: That's what you keep saying, but I don't have any secrets. I'm afraid I'm not nearly so mysterious and interesting as you. _(He chuckles.)_

G.: You think I'm interesting?

_(L.B. sounds embarrassed and defensive.)_

L.B. Well—of course. Why shouldn't I?

_(G.'s voice is quiet and smooth.)_

G.: I didn't say you shouldn't. In fact, that's very pleasing to hear. It makes me very happy.

_(They are silent for a few seconds. Then L.B. clears his throat. He sounds slightly uncomfortable.)_

L.B.: I think it's your turn to read, Gilbert.

G.: Yes. It is. I don't need to read it though; I have it memorized.

_(Recites, softly)_

O'er all the hilltops

Is quiet now,

In all the treetops

Hearest thou

Hardly a breath;

The birds are asleep in the trees:

Wait, soon like these

Thou too shalt rest.

_(He pauses.)_

G. (cont'd): _(Whispers)_ Isn't that a pretty thing? Beautiful…

_(L.B.'s voice is even weaker than before.)_

L.B.: Gilbert, I think… I have to lie down.

G.: Of course, you're very tired. I'm sorry; that was too much for today, wasn't it.

L.B.: No, it's… alright. You know I enjoy our readings. I'm afraid I won't sound very well on this recording, though.

G.: Nonsense, shh, shh. Just rest.

_(Something heavy is set down on a table—maybe the book.)_

L.B.: I'm s-so cold… Is the window open?

G.: No, it's closed. Here, let me hold you.

_(G. adjusts his position on the bed.)_

G. (cont'd): There, there. I'll warm you.

L.B.: B-but I feel c-colder…

G.: You're getting chills, that's all. They'll pass.

L.B.: Chills? D-do I have a fever? Maybe we should c-call Dr. Istrati…

G.: No, no, don't worry yourself, it's nothing serious. Do you feel unwell?

L.B.: No… just, cold…

_(L.B. makes a sound as he shivers.)_

L.B. (cont'd): But I have s-such a queer sensation…

_(G.'s voice grows softer as he speaks.)_

G.: Do you dislike it?

_(There is a pause, in which L.B. breathes loudly.)_

L.B.: It's strange…

G.: That's alright.

_(L.B.'s breathing is heard for several seconds.)_

G. (cont'd): Poor Ludwig… My poor Ludwig… You'll be all better soon. I'll make you better.

L.B.: Gilbert…

G.: _(Whispers)_ Shhh, shhh… Soon, we'll be together. You are so precious to me… I live in you.

_(L.B.'s breathing continues for a few moments before stopping suddenly.)_

_(It is completely silent for eight seconds. Then there is a sound reminiscent of choking.)_

_(A knock comes at the door. The door opens.)_

Erzsébet Héderváry: Oh!

_(There is a flurry of activity, probably G. getting off the bed. His voice is hard.)_

G.: What are you doing here? We didn't ring for you.

E.H.: I—I made tea, I thought—

G.: If he wanted tea, he'd ask for it!

_(L.B.'s voice is still weak, but he speaks more firmly now.)_

L.B.: Gilbert, stop it. She's just doing her job. Thank you, Erzsébet. You can bring it here.

_(Footsteps approach. The tea is set on a table.)_

E.H.: I apologize for the disturbance.

_(She leaves hurriedly. The door shuts.)_

L.B.: Gilbert, that was unnecessary.

G.: I'm sorry, I just—You need your rest. How are you supposed to get it if she keeps barging in unannounced?

L.B.: I'm thankful for your concern, but it's really not such a terrible thing. It's rather thoughtful of her, actually.

_(Blankets rustle—G. sitting back down on the bed?)_

G.: I suppose. I'm sorry; I overreacted. Do you forgive me?

L.B.: I would forgive you anything, you know that. But please, be a bit gentler with her.

G.: If you ask it of me, I shall. I would do anything for you; you know that, don't you?

_(L.B. laughs. He does not sound entirely at ease.)_

L.B.: You say the strangest things sometimes. Oh—Gilbert, you forgot to turn off the recorder.

G.: Oh, so I did. Let me—

_(Recording ends.)_

* * *

_8\. From the oral interview with Erzsébet Héderváry, 1992:_

To be honest, I don't know exactly what I saw that day. When I walked in, they were both on the bed—or, the Baron was in the bed, and Gilbert was on it, next to him, sort of leaning over him, I think. I couldn't see their faces, but the strangest thing was the position of the Baron's body. He was so rigid, and sort of arching up off of the bed with his arms bent at strange angles. But the moment they heard me—or Gilbert heard me, because I'm convinced the Baron wasn't fully aware of anything just then—but immediately, Gilbert sprang up, and the Baron collapsed back on the bed.

After that I was always careful to wait for a response before entering the room, though Frau Groza never used to do it that way. In a one-servant household things weren't so formal, see; at least not the way the Baron did it.

After that incident I was more apprehensive than ever around Gilbert. I already thought he was strange, and being around him made me feel… unnerved. But my uneasiness changed to terror after my next experience.

As I said, it was unusual for Gilbert to appear outside of his room before four o'clock in the afternoon. So keep that in mind.

I told you about what happened with the attic, long before Gilbert arrived. I hadn't gone up there since then. But now that Frau Groza was dead, I really was the head housekeeper—well, the only one—and I thought I ought to do a proper inventory. It was something the Baron had spoken about before—all part of getting the finances of the house in order. Well, those days he seemed so tired and ill most of the time, so I didn't bother him about it, but I thought I could do it myself. I had the key to the attic, so I decided, why not start there?

It was exactly noon. I know that because I remember the clock chiming as I went down the hall. This was an area of the house where we rarely went anymore; it had been the wing with the previous Baron's bedroom, but the young Baron and Gilbert's rooms were in a separate wing. At the end of this hallway, though, was the door to the attic stairs, and next to that door was a clock; a beautiful antique piece with decorative mirror panels on the front. Well, being the girl I was, I stopped in front of it to examine myself; you know, primp a bit. And then a voice spoke behind me.

You can't imagine the start it gave me. I hadn't seen anyone come up behind me in the reflection. I spun around and there was Gilbert.

He had two voices. One was the charmingly frail yet carefree voice he often used, especially around the Baron. The other was sharp as a whip, threatening. I'd only ever heard him speak like that on a few occasions, when he was greatly angered; like when I'd walked in on him with the Baron. That was the voice he used now.

"What are you doing here?" he said. I was so startled I completely stumbled over my answer. I think I managed to stutter out something about the attic, though.

The way he was staring at me… I was frozen to the spot. And I don't mean that just metaphorically; I mean I couldn't move. And I was cold. Very cold. I felt this… dread, in the pit of my stomach. As if I were in danger.

Then he moved between me and the attic door, and he said, "I think Ludwig has been quite clear on how he feels about people going in the attic."

Now, maybe that doesn't sound too threatening to you, but the way he said it… I was holding the keys, and my hand was shaking so badly and they were making so much noise rattling against each other that I had to clench them tight in both hands. And I got out of there as fast as I could, just as soon as I could move my feet again.

After that I was scared all the time. I avoided running into Gilbert at all costs. The possibility of rounding a corner and seeing him there made me terribly anxious. He seemed to be able to move without making a noise; you never knew where he'd show up.

And that's when I realized I hadn't noticed the Baron visiting the attic ever since Gilbert arrived.


	2. Chapter 2

_9\. From the journal of Ludwig Beilschmidt, 1931:_

December 5.

Received some sad news from Dr. I. today. Two of the young people in the village have succumbed to the disease, and more are showing signs of it. He asked me about my symptoms. I told him no change. I asked if my lethargy might just be depression from the cumulative weight of the last year's events, from Father to Frau Groza. He seemed to think it plausible, but told me to keep careful note of my condition.

What he described in all the ill people in the village is a steady decline, however; so far no patients have recovered, even temporarily, after the sickness first appears—whereas I feel variable, different from one day to the next. Sometimes I'm too tired to even write, and must simply stay in bed all day. Gilbert looks after me. But just when I think perhaps we should call the doctor, the next day I wake up feeling a little more normal.

Gilbert never fails to restore my confidence. He swears he will not rest until I am strong again. I hinted that if I am still unwell come spring, he will have to continue on his way nonetheless; but he responded that he will not leave my side as long as I need him. What a comfort it is to hear those words! He went as far as to say that I am more important to him now than that errand that brought him here in the first place. I really don't know how to react to such a declaration. It is strange to be the focus of such devotion—devotion of a sort I have never known, unlike Father's or Frau Groza's. Yet it warms my breast to hear him speak so, and fills me with such aching, unbearable tenderness. Gilbert! How much I owe to him in these dark days, my truest friend, my heart's companion. When he looks at me I feign think the world stops; time holds still, and he and I are all that exist. Sometimes I wonder how I came to be so fortunate to have Gilbert in my life, such a generous, devoted soul.

...

December 7.

I have stumbled upon something most delightful. As I was going through my writing desk this morning looking for fresh pens (they seem to disappear at an uncanny rate) I found an old locket tucked away in the back of one of the drawers. I've no idea how long it has been there or how it came to be there, for I have no memory of it. Inside is a handsomely painted miniature of a young man, who—most amazingly of all—bears a striking resemblance to Gilbert! The coincidence has to be seen to be believed. I am burning with curiosity about the subject of the portrait; it must be someone else, after all, since Gilbert has not previously been acquainted with my family. But how on earth did it come to be in my writing desk? Father purchased this desk for me years ago, when I was still much too young to make much use of it; I am unsure of the desk's origins, but I suppose it is possible that the locket belonged to a previous owner. I find it hard to believe, however, that if it had been sitting in the desk all these years I would not have found it before now. I have, after all, gone searching through its drawers for pens before! I asked Erzsébet if she knew anything about it, though she was quite as baffled as I. If Father or Frau Groza knew anything of it, they have taken that knowledge with them to their graves.

That puzzle aside, I am ever so eager to show Gilbert. I think he will be quite delighted; I mean to give it to him as a gift, in thanks for all he has done for me.

I know physicists have discovered the laws that make this universe turn and dictate the logic behind worldly events, but in moments like this I almost believe some other hand must be at work, whether God's or another force as of yet unnamed; something that ensures that the paths of those fated to meet cross, and which might conceal a locket in the back of a drawer to be found when and by whom it is supposed to be found.

...

December 8.

Gilbert loved it! He was so pleased when I presented it to him that my heart was nearly full to bursting. Here is how it happened:

I entered the study where he was lounging on the sofa with a book, and saw he had fallen asleep. I debated whether or not I should wake him, but in the end I was too excited to wait. I roused him with a gentle touch on the shoulder. He smiled when he laid eyes on me; I apologized for disturbing him, but he said, 'Don't be sorry for a moment. You are a pleasant sight to wake up to; I would gladly awaken to your face every day.' He says such charming things often—they roll off his tongue as if second nature to him. Usually I might be suspicious of such flattery, as on anyone else it would seem obsequious; but Gilbert speaks with such heartfelt tenderness I cannot possibly think badly of him. In fact it only recommends his character further.

I sat on the sofa where he made room for me, and told him I had something for him.

'Something for me? But you have given me so much already! I hope you haven't gone to any trouble,' he admonished.

'No trouble at all. And besides, as of late it is you who has done far more for me than I for you; consider this but a token of my gratitude. It's nothing but a trifle, really; it doesn't come close to expressing how thankful and fond I am. But I was quite charmed by it, as I hope you will be,'—was my reply, more or less.

I then presented him with the locket and told him to open it. When he saw the portrait he was very surprised.

'Surely you didn't—' he began to say, but I interrupted him.

'I found it,' I explained. 'Isn't it an amazing coincidence? The likeness is striking, wouldn't you say?'

'Striking is an understatement! I thought for a moment you had secretly hired a painter, or that perhaps your own artistic talents extend beyond what you let on. But no… It must be someone else, after all. A long-lost cousin of mine, perhaps,' he joked. 'Where did you find it though?'

I explained about the desk and how puzzled I was. He agreed that it must have something to do Father or Frau Groza, though it is most strange that it should end up in my desk drawer.

Gilbert fell back to admiring the portrait. He smiled the whole time. Then he said, 'So, you found this, and the portrait made you think of me. How lovely. And you decided to give it to me, because you thought I would like it. That's so kind of you, Ludwig.' He almost sighed these words.

Then he gathered me in his arms and pressed me to him passionately for a few seconds before sitting back again. He kept an arm about my waist, however.

Perhaps it is only because I have had such a solitary upbringing, with hardly a friend who might embrace me like that—and Father refrained from those sorts of displays—but I am always somewhat caught off guard by Gilbert's more physical expressions of affection. Wherever he comes from, he must be quite used to that sort of thing. It's not that I dislike it, however—on the contrary, I find the touch of a fellow being—a friend—quite soothing and pleasurable, only I don't know how to react. I wish I could return the gesture, but it does not come naturally to me. In fact, I feel a great frustration in this regard: an inability to express myself fully and freely. I think, perhaps, a part of me even craves that touch—it is only human after all, isn't it? To seek comfort in the touch of a loved one?—while another part of me fears to seek it out. What exactly I fear I cannot tell; I simply feel a general anxiety, perhaps that Gilbert will think me childish and desperate. But, in secret—I would never breathe a word of this to him or anyone—I would have gladly stayed in his arms for hours. I think all the loss I have endured must make me long for human contact more than is usual or proper.

But as I said, he sat back while keeping an arm around my waist—that, at least, was a comfort—and looked at my face and commented that I seemed to be doing much better. Indeed I have been feeling better generally, by which I mean less weary. (I still sleep long hours, but the length of this entry alone should testify to the better state of my spirit and mind.) In that particular moment, however, with Gilbert stroking my hair and the fire before us, I felt so cozy and content I became suddenly drowsy—and I'm afraid I nearly nodded off, for suddenly I caught myself and snapped awake with a start. The air that rushed into my lungs then felt very cold; I realized the fire had nearly gone out all of a sudden. I revived it, but it took a while for the warmth to seep back into my bones. I only remark on this because it struck me as quite strange how suddenly chilled I felt after almost dozing off, though I had been so contentedly warm just moments before. This old house could use some new insulation, but alas it is a costly investment.

Gilbert chuckled and asked if I needed to take a nap too—as he had been doing when I came in. I assured him I was quite all right, and settled down with a book. We fell back and forth between reading—often out loud, to each other—and conversing. I caught Gilbert gazing fondly at the locket on several occasions—he had put it around his neck and tucked it under his shirt. I know the portrait resembles him, but I hope he thinks of me when he looks at it.

...

December 9.

I'm afraid I'm much too tired to write now—more tomorrow. I have things to report.

...

[L. Beilschmidt's handwriting in the following entry is irregular and in parts nearly illegible. The writing errors have been preserved here as authentically as possible in print.—E.P.]

December 11.

Said I'd write yesterday, didn't. Simply exhausted. Pen still feels so heavy what's wrong with me? Head's all foggy. So strange, when I'm awake almost feel like I'm dreaming—when I'm dreaming feel as if awake. So real

The eyes! They look

...

December 13.

I'm afraid I don't recall what I was trying to write when I left off my last entry so abruptly. Such things seem to happen disturbingly often these days. I sometimes feel as though I have been sleep-walking—I will suddenly come to and find myself in another room without remembering how I got there. I know I've given poor E. a fright more than once, but I've forbidden her from calling Dr. I.; I'm sure my symptoms are not worth troubling him over, at least not when he has far more serious cases to contend with. There have been more deaths in the village, and if Dr. I. were to make the trip up here, it would surely take him away from his other patients for a full day or more, what with the snow on the road—in any case, long enough to mean the difference between life and death for one of those poor souls. Besides, G. is as devoted a nurse as ever. He lay with me for hours when I was feeling particularly unwell the other day.

The nightmares disturb my slumber ever more frequently. Always the same; either the figure in the room who traps me in my bed, or the large dog prowling the grounds. It is most curious. But perhaps it is not surprising that a mind as troubled as my own should fixate on such ominous motifs. Nearly everyone has repetitive dreams at some point in their life—or so I have read. But they seem to become ever more elaborate and vivid. I don't always remember the details, but sometimes my impression of the dream is especially immediate and real; I tend to feel especially exhausted and distracted the next day when that is the case. That should not be surprising, considering the intricate workings that connect mental and bodily well-being. Whether the psychological disturbance of the dreams is the cause for the physical deterioration or vice versa I am unsure, however.

I am very tired now. I must write more tomorrow.

...

[L. Beilschmidt's writing again becomes more uneven and error-prone in the entry for December 14.—E.P.]

December 14.

The dream again. So hard to write when all I want is to float away. Can't seem to care about a thing today. All seems almost unreal anyway, except G

Dream—so real. Could feel that thing on me, inside me, like it was becoming part of me, or I part of it

pain, in my chest and neck, stinging pain. all gone now though, nothing hurts, just so tired

...

December 16.

I'm still recovering from my most recent relapse. The dream was so vivid last time, and I remember it better now, especially the pain and the feeling of being violated by that thing that pins me down so helplessly and seems to enter me and take something from me—it is difficult to describe. I told G. about it—though not in such great detail—and asked him to examine me where I had felt the pain, somewhere around my neck and shoulder, but he insisted there was no sign of any damage. It must either be of purely psychological origin or perhaps I have pinched something. A nerve can cause that sort of stabbing pain.

I hesitate to write this, but—I felt very strange while G. was examining me. He used his hands, feeling gently along my skin for any sign of injury. I suppose it all goes back to my discomfort at being touched. No, discomfort is not the right word—actually I found it quite pleasurable. Is that wrong? I don't know what I felt or feel—only that I did not want him to stop touching me, and that I long for an excuse for him to touch me again. It is something altogether new to me, the way he used his fingers, feeling so tenderly and yet with such focused intent. His hands were very cold, but they sent a thrill through my entire body—not unlike what I often experience in the dreams. It is very confusing, such pleasurable and uncomfortable sensations being mixed together in those nearly nightly encounters. No more on that.

...

December 17.

Have I gone quite mad? I was perusing my old entries, remembering happier times, when Frau Groza and Father were still alive; but I discovered something entirely inexplicable. I have found reference in several entries to a G., although they were written well before Gilbert arrived here! I have no memory of who this other G. is, nor any inkling who it could be. I write that I spoke to him, spent time with him, on a fairly regular basis—surely I would remember that! I have had no such companion that I can recall however. Unfortunately I cannot find a single instance when I wrote out the name, and I am sure G. does not refer to Frau Groza either.

I am at such a loss I am afraid I am losing my mind. Perhaps whatever strange affliction has been ailing me has worked into my brain and begun to wear away at my senses and memories. What will I lose next? Part of me is terrified that my mental faculties will deteriorate altogether and I will forget who I am, consigned to live out a lonely and empty life here in this house, or worse, I will go to an institution and become nothing more than another mute who knows not where or what he is. But then, another part of me says it is much too early to have such fatalistic thoughts; perhaps there is an explanation for this memory gap that is not quite so horrible. It does not mean I am doomed to slip away; I could yet recover. But how will I know if I have forgotten something more? I am sick with worry.

...

December 19.

I am going mad, I am certain now. I no longer know what is real and what is not. The night before last I had a most unnerving experience. It started out like one of my regular dreams, the one where I go to the window and see the dog with the red eyes. But this time something different happened; one moment I was in my room at my window, and the next I was outside on the grounds myself. I was sensible of the cold and the snow, but somehow it did not bother me in this dream state. I stood looking at the dog over the space of several meters, and the dog looked back. Its eyes were unnervingly intelligent—human-like, even, and yet more than human, not mortal or natural. Again, I could not escape the feeling that I have seen them before!

But then the beast turned and began to walk away into the darkness. I followed; I do not know why, but I was compelled to. My memory of this is incomplete, as if I were slipping in and out of consciousness even as I walked. When we came to the edge of the grounds I realized where this thing was leading me: to the family crypt.

(As an aside, since I don't believe I noted it before—It is a while since I have been to the crypt. In fact, I have only visited it once since Father was buried there. It was difficult to bring myself to see his grave again. Frau Groza was the one who made sure to keep fresh flowers there. After the first snowfall I paid one of the delivery boys to help me clear the area around the entryway, as I do every winter, but I myself did not venture inside. Since then I have thought nothing more of it.)

The creature now walked inside the crypt, and full of trepidation I followed. Upon entering, however, I found myself alone; the dog had disappeared. I noticed before me a tomb I did not recognize. There was no inscription upon it. It lay open. I felt drawn to approach, to gaze inside. I feared to see a rotting corpse; imagine then my shock, when it was no decaying skeleton I found, but my very own body lying in the tomb! I looked down upon my own face, expressionless and pale, my own stiff body, hands folded over a bouquet of flowers—still fresh, as if newly picked—upon my breast. I was filled with dread, and yet the observation passed through my mind that I looked so very peaceful.

But even as I watched, I saw the flowers begin to wilt; they dried and curled and crumbled before my very eyes, until they were nothing but withered stalks. Yet the face of my own corpse did not change, did not shrivel, did not age.

These disturbing visions sent my already fragile mind into a state of panic. I must have fled the crypt, for all I remember after that is stumbling blindly through brush and snow.

Now comes the most alarming part of all. This was no ordinary dream like the others, vivid as they sometimes are, for when I awoke I was not in my bedchamber. I was outside, huddled against the house near the door to the kitchens. Erzsébet found me there as she came out to fetch firewood in the early morning hours. I am lucky she found me when she did, for already I was half frozen and very disoriented. She brought me in and sat me by the fire, and drew up a warm bath, which helped restore me. It is surprising and lucky I did not catch frostbite—but then, who knows how long I was actually out there? It felt like I must have been outside all night, wandering around, but perhaps it was less than an hour after all. Sleepwalking now, on top of the nightmares. It makes me frightened what may come next!

Gilbert was very concerned when I told him. I did not give him all the details—I haven't told him about the dog or the figure I often see in my room, not in detail at least. He only knows I am often troubled by strange dreams. I am not sure why I have not confided in him, but somehow the dreams seem so very personal, even intimate. I suppose I am worried what he would think of them, or of me, if I told him. But the sleepwalking was something so new and worrying I felt I needed to tell him, to hear his reassurance. He was alarmed for my health after hearing I had spent at least part of the night outdoors, but I assured him I was feeling much better at that point, resting in bed after my bath.

I noticed that when I mentioned the crypt he tensed, but after telling him what I had seen inside, oddly enough he seemed almost relieved. His interpretation is that, having experienced so much of death in the past year, it is no wonder I should dream of my own death as well. He said the flowers must be a symbol of the fragile transience of life, while my own unchanging face represents—what did he say, it was so strange—my own 'longing for an eternal youth preserved in death,' I think his words were. I'm not sure whether that is true or even what it really means, but G. assured me (it feels strange now writing G., with the mystery of the "other G." from my earlier entries still hanging over me; perhaps I should just write Gilbert's name out all the way for now to differentiate?)—he assured me that the dream itself was nothing to worry about: no ominous omen but rather, as Freud has written, the product of my own subconscious fears and desires. What I should worry about, according to him, is that I don't go wandering off in my sleep again and do serious harm to myself, as I nearly did this time. Erzsébet will take extra care with locking the doors in the evening from now on, and she herself will keep all sets of keys so that I would have to ask her personally if I were to go outside. This shouldn't be any trouble, as I don't have much reason to venture out of the house these days, especially not in my unstable condition.

Later.

This can be added to the ever-growing list of mystifying and unsettling developments of late: Erzsébet mentioned to me that yesterday she saw what appeared to be the tracks of a large dog or wolf in the snow out on the grounds. Apparently, she hears from the delivery boy that several villagers have spoken of seeing an unusually large animal of that nature stalking through the village in the hours before dawn. She exclaimed how lucky I was not to have run into the beast when I was wandering outside at night, and we must take care that I do not run that risk again.

It is impossible, however, that this is truly the creature from my dreams. It must simply be an ordinary wolf—that is not uncommon at all! And either it has somehow grown to be larger than most of its species peers, or people are allowing their imaginations to run away, as I must not allow my own to do!

...

December 21.

News from Dr. I. is more deaths in village. So terrible.

Was so tired yesterday I couldn't write. This time I remembered more of the dream. With the being that comes into my room. It's so dreadful—quite certain that that thing puts its mouth on me, and then bites me. That's what it feels like. Why am I plagued by such a horrid idea? It makes my stomach turn.

But the eyes—I can't get them out of my head. They are terrible, and yet—compelling, is the only word that comes to mind. But why should I find them so? That is what disturbs me. I wish for nothing more than to never see this figure again, but at the same time whenever I gaze into those eyes—even in my imagination—I am lost, and have the strange feeling that I do not want to be found. Like they could hold me forever.

What am I saying? I must truly be losing my mind, to think like that about such a ghastly, evil vision. For it cannot be anything but evil, can it? I have never been a particularly religious man, but now I begin to be almost superstitious. The idea of Satan and his temptations to darkness suddenly seem far more plausible to me than they ever have before. Perhaps there is something more to them than fairy tales.

* * *

_10\. Audio recording dated December 22, 1931:_

_(There is rustling for several seconds, as though someone is situating himself on a soft seat—probably the bed. G. speaks quietly.)_

G.: How are you feeling? Are you comfortable?

_(L.B.'s voice is feeble.)_

L.B.: With you by me, yes.

G.: What a dear thing to say. You must tell me, though, if there is anything you need, anything you desire.

L.B.: I don't desire anything more than your company.

_(There is a pause, then the sound of someone shifting on the bed.)_

G.: Do you mean that?

L.B.: Of course I do. Do you doubt me?

G.: No… You would never lie to me. Ludwig, you have no idea how much your words mean to me.

_(There is more rustling, then a pause.)_

G. (cont'd): There… Does this please you?

L.B.: _(In a breathy whisper)_ Very much.

G.: You know, I wish I could hold you in my arms all night, every night, forever…

_(L.B. breathes in shakily. His voice is unsteady, perhaps nervous.)_

L.B.: Gilbert, why is the recorder on?

G.: Just for fun.

L.B.: We don't have any—any books today, with us, what are you—what do you hope to capture on record?

G.: Whatever happens.

_(L.B. laughs uneasily.)_

L.B.: Well, what do you plan to do with it? Who are you making it for?

G.: For us. Don't worry, no one else has to listen to it, if you don't want.

L.B.: Well, I don't—I don't mind, but it seems, well…

G.: Shhh, shhh. Don't worry about it. Can't we just enjoy being here, together? Isn't a simple moment of contentment and pleasant conversation worth preserving on record, that we may always look back fondly on it?

_(L.B. grunts in agreement.)_

G. (cont'd): I was hoping you might tell me more of these strange dreams of yours, though. They seem to trouble you so much—perhaps if you shared the burden of these strange visions, they might become more bearable.

L.B.: Oh, I shouldn't bother you with those silly fantasies. They're nothing.

G.: They are not nothing; not after you were found sleep-walking out in the snow! Troubled dreams are the manifestation of a troubled mind, Ludwig—if I could help you make sense of them, perhaps your mind would be more at rest. Please, let me help.

L.B.: They are—they are too ridiculous. Something a foolish young schoolboy would think up and only even younger and more foolish children would believe and be frightened of.

G.: But you are frightened, I can tell. And you may be young yet, but you are not foolish.

_(L.B. laughs.)_

L.B.: Young? You call me young? You can hardly be much older than I, Gilbert.

G.: Looks may be deceiving; though it is true, I am not yet so old. But come now, Ludwig; why do you hesitate to confide in me? I thought we could be open with each other.

L.B.: You… would think it strange.

G.: I'm sure it won't be as strange as many things I've seen and heard.

L.B.: But that it comes from my own mind, somehow—

G.: You are not at fault for your dreams, Ludwig. The unconscious mind is an alien landscape, and if we were all held accountable for what lies there, we would each one of us meet harsh condemnation. So whatever it is, it cannot make me think any less of you, if that is what you fear.

_(L.B. sighs.)_

L.B.: Very well. _(Pause.)_ Sometimes, at night, I think I see a figure in my room—

G.: The one you said bit you, on the neck?

L.B.: …I don't recall telling you it bit me.

G.: Oh, I thought—you wanted me to inspect your neck for marks. I assumed, from your description, that you meant teeth marks. Was it not a bite you dreamed of though? Perhaps I may have missed something after all?

L.B.: I see… No, you're right; it did feel rather like teeth… It's difficult to remember.

G.: What do you remember, then? What does the figure do?

L.B.: I—The figure—it moves towards me. I can't make out its features, save for the eyes. They glow red, and they… paralyze me, somehow. They look right into me…

_(There is a pause. L.B. voice is soft and he sounds distracted.)_

L.B. (cont'd): Strange. I could almost swear—no, never mind.

G.: What is it? You can tell me.

L.B.: Well, it's ridiculous, really, but—your eyes. They remind me of the eyes in my dream, in a way.

G.: _(Gently teasing)_ Please don't tell me that my eyes inspire terror in you heart.

L.B.: No, no, of course not. Actually, even in the dream… I am frightened, but—I'm not sure if terror is the right word. The eyes… Perhaps I'm only frightened of them because of how strange they are, how intensely they look at me. But those aren't bad things, necessarily, are they? Strange things can be awe-inspiring… even beautiful.

G.: Do you find my eyes beautiful?

L.B.: What? I— That's—

_(L.B. clears his throat. He sounds flustered.)_

L.B. (cont'd): Like I said, they remind me of the eyes in my dream.

G.: _(Chuckling)_ I'll take that as an affirmation.

_(L.B. begins to protest; G. cuts him off.)_

G. (cont'd): But go on; what happens when these eyes look at you?

L.B.: Well, the creature… It, ah… Well, the rest is all quite indistinct, so it's not important, really—

G.: Ludwig, if I didn't know any better, I would say you were embarrassed. You're hiding something. I told you: you can't control your dreams; it's nothing to be ashamed of.

L.B.: That's just it, though, isn't it? Dreams show you—what you would rather not know, or say, sometimes.

G.: Is it so serious as that? What is it you would rather not know, or say? You can tell me.

_(There is a pause. L.B. sighs.)_

L.B.: If there's anyone I can tell, I suppose it's you. _(He pauses.)_ The figure—it moves, like a shadow, over the bed… over me. I can't move, and it covers me, every inch of my body.

G.: And what is so shameful about that?

L.B.: W-well, it's quite—intimate, isn't it? I d-don't know, how I feel about it. And then it, w-with its teeth, or something, here… It hurts, but I—

_(L.B. breaks off, as if unable to say more.)_

G.: Is it pleasurable?

L.B.: Gilbert! How could such a thing be pleasurable?

G.: Pleasure and pain are two sides of the same coin, are they not? Sometimes, it is difficult to tell one from the other. Besides, you are right. It is a very intimate situation you describe. And you did say the shadow's eyes are beautiful.

L.B.: I did not say they were beautiful—what you're implying, it's entirely improper—

G.: I am implying nothing, merely repeating was you have said. What about it is improper, exactly?

L.B.: Well, this—thing; do I have to explain it to you? It's not… human, Gilbert. It is a vision of darkness. It must be. To derive any sort of pleasure from its visitations—to wish for anything other than its banishment from my mind—

G.: So I'm right. There is the source of your torment. It is not in the figure's actions, but in your reaction to it. You desire its return to your bed. But Ludwig, pleasure is not a crime. You must allow yourself—

L.B.: Gilbert, I don't see why we have to have this conversation while the recorder is— _(He gasps.)_ What are you doing?

_(There is a moment of perfect stillness. Then L.B. hisses. His voice is breathy.)_

L.B. (cont'd): Gilbert!

G.: _(Whispers)_ Do you want me to stop?

_(Another pause, longer this time. L.B. speaks quietly, shakily.)_

L.B.: No…

_(There is silence for a few moments. L.B.'s breathing becomes audible. It grows louder and quickens. There is discomfort in his voice when he speaks, still in a whisper.)_

L.B. (cont'd): Gilbert, turn off the recorder, please.

_(A pause.)_

G.: If you insist.

_(There is shuffling and shifting on the bed for several seconds. Recording ends.)_

* * *

_11\. Film strip from the collection of Ludwig Beilschmidt:_

Undated. Handwritten note by E. Héderváry reads "late December?" 52 sec.

_L.B. lies in bed. His head and shoulders, seen in profile, are framed closely by the camera, which lies on the bed next to him, perhaps elevated on a pillow. He looks worn and tired once more, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused as they gaze at a point out of the frame._

_His eyebrows furrow and his mouth turns down in a frown before opening to breathe heavily. His eyes fall closed._

_L.B. turns his head towards the camera. He raises his hand up and appears to cup his own cheek, but without actually making contact with his skin (as though he were touching something on his face that is not there, or that we cannot see)._

_His hand falls away. The strands of hair over his forehead move in an unusual way: not as though caught by an air current, but as though being pushed deliberately aside, though no visible force is acting upon them._

_L.B. sighs deeply and is still for several seconds._

_Slowly, his head turns from side to side, tilting back. His shoulders roll forward and his back arches off the bed, his mouth hanging open._

_The expression on his face seems to be a mixture of pleasure and pain; his brow is knit. He appears to convulse several times._

_L.B. gasps and one hand flies up, grasping at thin air above his shoulder. His fingers are clawed and tense._

_His eyes fly open: they are white, no pupil or iris in sight._

_He jerks violently. The camera tips over and the lens is covered with a blanket or pillow._

_Film ends._

* * *

_12\. From the oral interview with Erzsébet Héderváry, 1992._

After the sleepwalking incident I became more worried than ever for the Baron. And I was worried, above all else, by how much time he spent with Gilbert. They would spend hours locked away together in Herr Beilschmidt's chamber, or the library. And when I say locked, I mean it—Gilbert insisted on keeping their privacy after the time I had entered unannounced.

It was a troubling, frightening time for me. I felt very alone. But I knew it was my duty to look after the household, and after my employer, as best I could. Herr Beilschmidt often slept long hours, just like Gilbert, but sometimes I had time to speak to him before his companion awoke. I would ask how he was doing, if he needed the doctor; he would always insist he was fine, that I was not to call the doctor—and how could I disagree, when disease was spreading down in the village? I couldn't very well call the doctor away from his post without good reason. I did offer once to call for a doctor all the way from Telmacel, but Herr Beilschmidt wouldn't hear of it. He said the expense would be quite unnecessary.

So I did my best to help him. It didn't escape my notice that his affliction seemed to be at least partially in the mind. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell if his lethargy was more due to physical exhaustion or to depression. I tried to keep him occupied; I would bring him his journal and his books, if he felt well enough for them. I also tried to speak to him, as best I could, to understand what ailed him.

He never told me exactly what he saw in his dreams, but he mentioned dark visions often enough that I had an inkling what sort of nightmares they might be. One time, I remember, I was trying to be reasonable, and I said it wasn't so surprising, that he was having bad dreams, when he had suffered so much. I did feel sorry for him and for all his losses, and I said so: not only for his father and Frau Groza and fiancée that year, but even earlier in his life, for his mother and brother. I said it would take time to heal from the new losses, just like it had from the old ones.

But then he looked at me, sort of confused, and said, "You are mistaken; I never had a brother."

I was taken aback, because I was sure Frau Groza had mentioned to me more than once that the Beilschmidt family had lost an older child just after the war; so I said so to the Baron. He simply replied that I must have misunderstood Frau Groza, for he would surely know it if he had ever had a brother.

I was bewildered, but what could I say? I thought I must have made a mistake somehow, as he said. But as time wore on my curiosity only grew; the more I thought about it the more I was sure of what I remembered. It kept nagging at me. I figured there was only one way to find out: I would go to the family crypt, and see if I couldn't find the tomb of the brother.

I felt a little foolish, contradicting the Baron like that, but I decided it didn't hurt anything just to check, and he would never know I had gone. So a couple days later, early in the morning before anyone would be awake, I set out across the grounds.

This was no easy task in winter, of course, with all the snow. The house sat on a relatively flat patch of land, which on one side sloped down to the village, and on the other began to rise steeply up into the real mountains. The crypt was just up a narrow path on that side of the grounds, where it started to get steep, sort of tucked away in this crevice out of sight of the house.

So, I was making my way up that path, when suddenly I noticed there were fresh prints in the snow: paw prints, large, dog-like. I had seen those prints before, and suddenly I remembered what I'd heard about a large wolf on the prowl around the village. I wondered if I hadn't better turn back; the tracks looked fresh. But I was a stupid young thing and this was the closest I'd ever had to adventure in my life, so I pressed on. Eventually the animal tracks wandered off the path, so I thought I was safe.

It wasn't until I had reached the crypt that I saw the prints again, and more than that, they led right inside. The door was standing open.

I wasn't sure if the wolf was still in there, but I didn't have to wait long to find out; I heard growling coming from the darkness inside, and then two eyes appeared, looking straight at me. They weren't eyes like I'd ever seen on any animal. They were red, and bright—not animal-like, but not human either: inhuman. And then I saw the beast itself. It was a great wolf, larger than any I'd seen. I'm sure it could have torn me to shreds if it had wanted to. And I was afraid it did want to; it stood there, at the entrance to the crypt, its hackles raised, growling and baring its teeth at me.

I was terrified. I was sure this was the end for me. I knew I had to get out of there, so I forced myself to move, but I thought it would follow me, chase me down; but it didn't. I practically ran the entire way back to the house, looking over my shoulder the entire time, but it never came after me. It could have killed me that day, but it didn't. For whatever reason, it let me live.

That's how I know that the Baron wasn't making it all up. I saw that thing with my own two eyes. I've read that journal, I know what he writes about it, and it wasn't just the product of fever dreams or a delusional mind. It was real.

I had hardly recovered from that fright when the telephone rang. It was Dr. Istrati on the phone, but he wasn't calling for the Baron—he had a message for me. He had just received word that my mother had fallen very ill, and I had to return home at once. My mother was an aging woman, so of course I was concerned; I woke the Baron to let him know—poor soul, he didn't look well at all. I didn't want to leave him at a time like that, but it was my mother. The Baron said Gilbert would look after him, I should take all the time I needed, etc. I never should have left him alone with that man.

It took me four days to get back to my parents' home, which was some ways out in the countryside outside Talmaciu. Heavy snowfall and the Christmas holiday made the journey longer than usual, and I was terribly agitated the whole time. When I arrived, I was surprised and relieved to find my mother doing perfectly well, for a woman her age, but I was disturbed to learn that they had never sent word to Dr. Istrati. I wanted to go back right away, but they convinced me to stay just for one night—and I thought, how much could go wrong after all? I didn't like Gilbert, but he did seem to care for the Baron, and the Baron trusted him. I thought things would be all right.

I arrived back in Telmacel four days later, on the first of January, 1932. The first thing I did was go to Dr. Istrati for answers.


End file.
